


When I leave you / When you leave me / When we leave

by sweariwouldnt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Present Era, feelings good and bad, non-au, old! Larry, x-factor era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweariwouldnt/pseuds/sweariwouldnt
Summary: Three scenes about leaving.





	When I leave you / When you leave me / When we leave

**Author's Note:**

> It turned out that the three great quote prompts I could choose from, ganged up on me and told me a story together, in three different times and scenes. 
> 
> _"What is an angel if not a monster of some kind?"_ (Smoke by Dan Vyleta)  
>  _"The problem with wanting," he whispered, his mouth trailing along my jaw until it hovered over my lips, "is that it makes us weak."_ (Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo)  
>  _"I will arise and go now, for always night and day/I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;/While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,/I hear it in the deep heart’s core."_ (Lake Isle of Innisfree by W.B. Yeats)
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my most loveliest beta Nina. Your support is so important to me.

 

**I. _What is an angel if not a monster of some kind?_**

  
The rain droplets are racing on the car window.

They look like sperm, racing to the finish line. The thought makes Harry chuckle absentmindedly. Now he can’t unsee the sperm anymore. He keeps staring at them, not really seeing.

Gemma is talking to someone on the phone. She’s sitting next to Harry in the backseat, and she’s taking so much space. Harry feels like he’s been in this car for so long, too long. Gemma’s voice hurts Harry’s ears, especially when she laughs. It sounds fake; like she isn’t really amused or thinking what was said was funny; she’s just flirting, giggling on a high-pitched voice. She has her finger playing with a strand of her hair, curling it around and then releasing it, repeat, the strand of hair bouncing when she lets it go.

Harry wants to tell her that her spikey hair isn’t ever going to _really_ be curly. Not curly like Harry’s. Not like Harry’s curly hair that Louis likes, he has told Harry.

Louis isn’t currently telling Harry anything, so Harry needs to hold on to things he has said before. Louis isn’t babbling and rambling on his ears constantly, not invading his sight everywhere he looks.

And Harry always made sure to be looking right at Louis.

Now all Harry sees is the back of his mum’s head and the watery sperm wiggling down the window. English countryside scenery is passing them too quickly and blocked by the heavy rain to even enjoy it, and, if he looks to his side, his sister is still playing with her hair.

Harry wants to look at his phone, but doesn’t. He knows it’d be stupid anyway, for two reasons. Firstly, his phone got the sounds on so not a beep would go unnoticed. Secondly, more importantly, Louis must be too happy and excited and bubbling with the overflowing, neverending energy he seems to radiate like it’s some sort of magic/superpower, telling his family all about the very many exciting things that have happened since he last saw them, as he’s currently sitting in a car heading back home, too.

Harry wonders if Louis tells his family about Harry.

His family knows everything about Louis, however.

Or, more accurately, knows everything Harry has wanted to tell them.

They know Louis is from Doncaster, has an army of siblings and is two ( _technically three, Harold)_ years older than Harry. Harry’s mum knows Louis’ mum is going to become her very best new mum friend. They know Harry thinks Louis is absolutely bloody brilliant, really, sings like an angel and acts like a menace but never means harm. They know Louis for some unfathomable reason likes to call Harry Harold, and it makes Gemma huff and roll her eyes. It makes Harry think he _should’ve_ been called Harold, maybe.

Harry hasn’t told anyone, not yet, that Louis is also very probably the best thing that has ever happened to him. He thought he’d been having a fine 16 years of life, been pretty happy on most days, thankful for the family and good friends he had. But when Louis had suddenly appeared, entered his life in the quirkiest way of meeting in the loo, it had felt like nothing else really made sense. Anything that was before, had now clearly revealed itself in the emptiness that had been. Nothing had ever been as funny, as intoxicating, as big of an adventure as Louis now made everything. The weirdest, most amazing, the very scariest thing however was that Louis seemed to think the same about Harry.

Harry hasn’t told his family that now, sitting in the car with them, physically feeling the distance gather between him and Louis, it feels like he’s using one limb at a time the further they get – and after his limbs are gone, his organs will start to drop.

Except for his heart, possibly. Probably. Harry feels like maybe his heart dropped earlier, maybe it fell down and Louis caught it and now keeps it.

Harry is awoken from his thoughts of blue eyes and brown hair and a ringing laugh by another ringing laugh, sadly from his mum and not his Louis.

“Oh Birdy,” Anne giggles, well-manicured fingers reaching out to Robin’s neck and tickling his skin gently.

Harry makes an amused sound. Despite his name, Robin is very much not like any bird Harry has known of, but for some reason his mum insists on calling Robin ‘Birdy’. It’s ridiculous.

Harry wishes he could share it with Louis. His eyes, vaguely hopefully, seek out Louis in the car though of course he knows Louis won’t be there. But looking for Louis is almost muscle memory these days. Harry imagines Louis making faces next to Gemma, always humouring Harry and being brilliantly funny as he is. Harry chuckles out loud to a non-existent, non-happening face, belonging to someone who, to Harry, feels more real and true than any other person.

Louis actually _is_ a bit like a bird. A wonderful humming chittering bird. Harry sighs without realising it.

“Now that was a sad sound,” Robin observes.

Anne turns to look at Harry, forehead furrowed. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Harry shrugs, not really wanting to go into it. It’s his own little secret, so precious and tender still.

Enter Gemma, of course, always enter Gemma.

“Ooh I know!” She shrieks mischievously and winks at Harry but it’s not conspirational. It’s more the kind of ‘Prepare to be shat on, little brother’. “Must be about Looooooouis,” she drags out his name.

“Shut up,” Harry mumbles but too late.

Anne has caught up and she looks delighted as well. “Oh Louis!” She goes quiet for a few seconds, and then the mischievous sparkle has reached her eyes, too. “Sweet Louis. You’re already missing him.”

“M’not,” Harry mumbles. It’s to no avail, his mother and sister are gleaming at him and then Gemma makes ridiculous kissing sounds through her puckered lips. “Fuck off,” Harry slaps her arm.

“Language!” Robin shouts with no gusto, it’s more an automatic reaction now after he’s been doing it for years.

“Harry likes Louis,” Gemma singsongs, “likes him _like that_.”

Harry swats her arm again and makes a face that he hopes comes across as menacing. Silencing.

“Baby, Harry, you’ll see him in no time again,” Anne tells him softly as if talking to a child missing their family pet or something. She turns her head back. “He seems like a very nice boy.”

“Mum, please,” Gemma huffs. “He’s the absolutely most nicest boy Harry has ever ever met.”

“Most brilliant,” Robin pipes in. Harry likes him a lot on most days but he should really shut it and focus on driving now.

“Wonderful. So sweet,” Anne smiles.

“Almost magical,” Robin says and as pissed off at him as Harry is, he really agrees. Such a Louis-word, magical.

“Wonder how so much perfection can even fit into one person,” Gemma sighs dreamily. “Such an angel. Angel from the heavens above.”

Harry bites his tongue, not saying anything, and eventually his family leaves him alone. He isn’t dumb though, he sees the looks the others exchange.

Gemma’s words play in his head. He was going to very quickly agree that yes, absolutely; Louis is very much an angel but. Harry is sitting here, without him, feeling like he’s missing at least half of him when Louis is not in his immediate proximity. It’s not very angelic, now.

More monstrous, really, to have someone have such intense power over Harry after such a little time of knowing each other. As if he lured Harry to give him his adoration and trust and now Harry just has to pray Louis won’t use the power for bad, won’t hurt Harry, won’t break the heart he stole and holds, but is gentle with it.

His phone beeps and Harry feels all the rain stop and create rainbows, all the annoyance leave his body, birds are singing in the distance and he doesn’t mean Robin, when he sees it’s a text from Louis.

_“Is it just me or do water drops on windows really look like sperm?”_

_\--_

 

**II. _"The problem with wanting," he whispered, his mouth trailing along my jaw until it hovered over my lips, "is that it makes us weak."_**

It has become routine, by now.

It’s probably not the healthiest ways to deal with things, but it’s a them-way to deal with things. They’ve never talked about it, either. They’ve never had to; it seems to be one of these silent agreements where they know why they do it and, somehow inexplicably, it makes them feel better. It’s one of those things in their life that they don’t have to verbally agree on to know that they’re in it together.

Harry doesn’t remember when it first started. Likely the first few times were a natural progression of feeling sad, feeling angry, feeling so in love and co-dependent almost, that the separation looming ahead for awful reasons just made them do this song and dance. Then, after a few times, it switched to being more of a comforting thing. They’d found complete faith in the other coming back from where ever they’d been whisked off to do publicity duties. They had begun knowing they wouldn’t actually die out of missing each other during their time apart. Found faith in coming back together united, every time, feeling a little bit stronger.

Maybe that’s when it became more of a habitual routine, of clinging to something they knew and could control amongst the very many, too many, things that they couldn’t.

And it doesn’t matter who is doing the leaving and who is staying, they interchange the roles in this play fluently for each occasion. This time, Louis is the one leaving and Harry is the one staying behind. He isn’t really staying home, is he, when the biggest part of what makes a home, won’t be there.

It starts about a day before the other one has to leave. The night before the last is always lovely, as if they’re stocking up on each other for the weeks apart. Sometimes they hang out with friends or family during the day, laughter and joy and a lot of hugs. Then, dinner is always reserved for just them two, wine and candles and quite a bit of flirting, or a take-away and board games and silly dancing. Either way, dinner leads up to some of the best sex they have, rough and soft and followed by quietly whispered words with their foreheads pressed together, telling each other just how much, and why, they love each other more than anything. They sleep through the night wrapped up with each other – not that they don’t most nights, but on these nights, the grip is just that little bit tighter.

And then comes the next morning, their last together.

The atmosphere from the warm coziness of the night before has changed to several degrees chillier, as if a window were left wide open somewhere, bringing in a breeze that is not refreshing but just leaves a cold draft that lingers around.

The morning sex is not bad per say, it never is when it’s the two of them, but every time on days like these it just feels… it doesn’t really feel like anything. They are going through motions while they still have the opportunity, leaving kissing or eye-locking to a minimum. They both come but they don’t feel sated, it leaves both of them feeling hollow.

This weird primal thing of having deflating sex feels like a duty, a blast from the past. In the beginning, during one of the first times of forced separation, they actually did have a big fight about how both, so new to this and so insecure, had felt like making sure the other left physically satisfied would make the absence somehow more secure. As if that way, the other wouldn’t feel a physical need to wander elsewhere. It’s ridiculous, childish, they’d agreed. Their commitment to each other was based on so many other things than sex, and there was absolutely no real fear of breaking that commitment. 

Yet they have carried on doing it.

The whole day is just waiting for the moment Louis has to leave, both of them feeling angsty and nervous. The whole day is ruined.

They learnt early on to not fight about anything important, not about anything big, not on these moments. It’s nitpicking the silliest, most meaningless things, trying to pick a fight about something small.

Although, perhaps, nothing about the reason they fight is really small.

It’s as if they try to annoy each other on purpose, so the other can light the dynamite and explode. Then, they can safely pick up the fight together and carry on arguing, letting out the pressure and steam and sadness of the unavoidable departure, looming over them. Usually they have a blazing argument about tidiness or other household things neither really gives a shit about. It’s a safe subject, a meaningless mean to an end.

“Haz, can I borrow your donut hoodie?” Louis asks, sounding innocent.

Harry knows he just wants a piece of Harry with him, but due to their script, he nags about maybe Louis should take better care of his own stuff so he didn’t have to live off Harry’s closet, and they’re off.

Shouting, bickering, snappy remarks, huffing, flipping the bird. It’s all a part of their choreography of the morning when the other has to leave. Knowing someone as well as Harry and Louis know each other, allows to jab into the things they know will irk the other the most. It’s almost as if, after having such a lovely evening together, they need the balance of having a huge row just before saying goodbye.

Louis once suggested maybe it’s easier to leave when you’re annoyed, but that reasoning doesn’t explain why they never cannot make up after the cleansing argument.

While Louis seethes outside with a smoke, Harry finds his stupid hoodie and sprinkles a little bit of his aftershave on it, before packing it on Louis’ suitcase.

Louis comes back to their bedroom, seeing the hoodie in his bag but he doesn’t say anything. His fingertips touch Harry’s back testingly and it feels like it roots Harry back to reality – not this sham reality they both act their roles in, but in their _real_ reality.

“One more hour,” Harry says quietly and looks at Louis, who nods and looks at him.

Louis starts taking his clothes off until he’s naked, and moves on to undress Harry, very slowly, very carefully. Harry says nothing, but looks at Louis’ face intensely. Louis doesn’t lift his eyes up from Harry’s body; as if he’s memorising every inked line, every nipple, every freckle and mole.

When they are both standing naked in the middle of their bedroom, Louis takes Harry’s hand to his.

“Come put your traces on me.” Louis whispers and leads Harry to the bathroom.

There’s something symbolic, purifying, about this habit of washing each other and marking each other, leaving their scent and their touch lingering on the other when they know they need to be apart.

“It makes me feel so… weak,” Louis confesses quietly as Harry’s fingers are running through his hair, lathering the shampoo. It smells faintly like cinnamon.

“What does?”

Louis considers for a moment and then decides. “You. Us. It makes me just, I’m strong for you but it also leaves me feeling so…. weak.”

 “Nothing wrong with being weak.”

 “I don’t think it’s the weakness, really, but the… Vulnerability, I guess. Feeling weak makes you feel so vulnerable. That’s the scariest part.”

“It’s okay though, if you have a person who… You know isn’t going to take advantage of that. Like, you’re my weak spot. My biggest weakness, and yeh, it leaves me vulnerable and I know people know it too, and might use it but… I’m not afraid of that from _you_. I’m most vulnerable towards you and you’d never….”

“I’d never.”

“I know, and I know you know I wouldn’t ever, _ever_ , but it’s. Like this thing, what we always do when one of us has to go away, it’s gotten easier but it’s never easy. Feels like…” Louis sighs, deep, deflated, and deep again as if he’s going to gather us much oxygen as he can and store it. “Like breathing is easier when you’re near.”

It’s their routine, and in some strange way, it helps them cope, and it makes it easier when they leave each other. It makes coming back to each other even better; even more of a certainty.

\--

 

**III. _"I will arise and go now, for always night and day / I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; / While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, / I hear it in the deep heart's core._**

 

Harry closes his eyes, wrapping his fingers tighter around the big mug of steaming coffee. It’s the kind of morning where the mist rising from the lake and the steam rising from this coffee mix into one grey haze in the air, entangling together.

He looks down at the top of Louis’ head, Louis who is leaning back between his legs on the wooden deck leading to the lake, sipping his own coffee. Or Loch, really, considering their cozy little cottage is in Scotland.

“It’s so misty and grey that it’s almost silver,” Louis muses.

Harry smiles. “Sort of like you, then,” he remarks as he runs his finger through a few of Louis’ silvery grey whisps of hair.

“And you,” Louis tells Harry.

They’ve both gotten older, it’s true. Or maybe, more specifically, they have actually gotten old.

Their cottage here, by the Loch, surrounded with mountains, is so remote, everything but the silence is so quiet. They themselves have gotten a little quieter too, with the decades spent together having been spent in so much noise, from themselves, surrounded by noises of others. And the decades spent have made, Louis has suggested, it rather pointless to even waste what little breath they have left on speaking; they understand each other’s companionable silence loud and clear, moreso than ever.

They sit together, enjoying their coffees in the breezy Spring morning, watching the mist slowly disappear as the sun starts to rise from behind the mountains.

“Can you believe we have three grandkids?” Harry suddenly breaks the silence, sounding in awe.

Louis chuckles. “No. And yeah. Remember how much we used to dream about this? Being old together and having a huge family?”

Harry nods, briefly pressing his lips to Louis’ hair.

“And… we got it, love. After everything, we got it. Felt so hopeless but hey ho, look at us now.”

“We’ve been so lucky,” Harry smiles. “Just hope they’re not going to name her anything daft. I’m not going to London just to stand there and try not to roll my eyes at the name they’ve chosen.”

Louis chuckles, getting up. He holds his hands out to Harry.

“You ready to leave?”

Harry is. He always is.

Especially now when, there’s nowhere to leave anymore, nowhere they can’t, don’t want, aren’t able to go together. These days, when they leave, they leave together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it.  
> Kudos and comments are water to my soil x


End file.
